


war lived in me

by nymja



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And how many children would we have in Gallia?”</p><p>“An army,” he rasps in her ear as he slowly kisses her neck, “all with the fire of their mother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	war lived in me

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr with the prompt: "talking about how different their lives could have been, had they been born free"

“You wake.”

Naevia would know the sound of Crixus’s voice anywhere in this life or the next, and it’s enough to calm her as she reorients herself. Her body aches, the customary soreness of battle accompanied by a searing pain across her torso and abdomen. Her lips are cracked, throat parched. But she breathes, and in her hand is her man’s.

“In good company,” she whispers, squeezing her fingers through Crixus’s own. 

He smiles down at her, though she can tell from the darkened circles under his eyes he has been uneasy. Her mind pieces together memories, of their attempt on Crassus’ life, of being cut by the sword and tumbling into the snow. That she awakens here, in her own tent, shows the gods once again favor her in cheating death.

“Though almost parted from it,” his eyes travel from her face to the wound, and his thumb strokes across her knuckles, “I would not have such close calls again.”

Naevia is worn and battle-weary, but manages a smile, “Such calls are inevitable with warriors. Not long ago, it was I sitting at your bedside as you struggled to remain in this life.”

He is silent, before he wordlessly slips onto the bedroll beside her, mindful of her injuries. She shifts, nestling easily into the warmth of his body, his chest behind her back. His hands go, out of habit, to wrap around her waist but he stops himself–instead resting them upon her thighs. She relaxes, and though her stomach protests in pain it is not long until she grows accustomed to it.

Crixus’s lips are warm when he presses them to her temple, “Sometimes I would have it otherwise.”

Naevia tenses, “That I was not a fighter?”

“No,” he is quick to say, tone heated in the syllable, “But that you had cause other than this.” His fingers slide slowly back-and-forth over the skin of her legs, “That you had a home instead of the promise of one to protect.”

She closes her eyes. Such prospects are dreams, ones that she has not given thought to. But here, in this tent, recovering from her wounds and with her man beside her, the two of them alive, she allows herself a moment of respite. Naevia’s fingers trace the length of Crixus’s arms that cage her, feeling every rise of corded muscle underneath them.

“In Gallia?” She asks. 

His chest moves in a wave as he takes a slow inhale. Releases it. “Yes. Though we could also live in the home of your people.”

Naevia shakes her head, “All that I know of my people is with my mother, sold before I was old enough to speak. Tell me of Gallia.”

“It is…” one of the hands on her leg pauses, moves to her hip, “Easy to defend-” she smiles in amusement, “-Mountains, as far as the eye can see, broken only by small pastures.”

“And we would be farmers, in Gallia?” Naevia tries to imagine the man behind her with sow and plow, tilling earth or shearing sheep. Tries to imagine herself, bringing in eggs or milk.

Crixus snorts, “My kin were  _warriors,_ we took food from the hunt or raided the stores of rival tribes.”

“And the women?”

His chuckle forms in his chest and reverberates into hers, “In this life or any other, I see you with sword in hand.” His thumb rubs the crest of her hip through the thin cloth of her dress, “…and, in Gallia, with children.”

Naevia hears the word and it echoes around her. It is only in quieter moments, such as this, that Crixus allows her to know of his desire. It is no secret to _her_  that her man longs for family, and when she is feeling strong enough she can admit to the grief she feels at its loss. But this is not Capua, that Crixus speaks of, and she can bury deepest wishes under the guise of games.

“And how many children would we have in Gallia?”

“An army,” he rasps in her ear as he slowly kisses her neck, “all with the fire of their mother.”

Naevia lets herself picture this life. Of living in the mountains, training and hunting and  _protecting._ She imagines small faces, with his eyes and her skin, practicing combat with false swords and never knowing the burn of a brand or the weight of a collar. Never needing to step foot in coliseum or mine.

Her stomach twists in a pain of another sort. Naevia stills her breath, before turning her head to meet his gaze. His eyes are soft, lips still fixed in a distant smile.

“I would like to see this Gallia,” she whispers, “With mountains and warriors and children.”

He rests his forehead against hers, “Then we will burn down the Rome that keeps us from it.”


End file.
